Jo'Jarsi the Small
by Styloac
Summary: A small Khajiit finds herself in a cosmic battle between man and dragon, as well as misadventures of assassins, thieves, daedra and other catastrophic situations. This is a collection of her stories.
1. Prelude

Jo'Jarsi knew not what to think as her head was laid against an execution block. She didn't know what she had done to deserve death, or if she could get out of it. The executioner, tall and thick with muscle, towered over her with his bearded axe in hand. His face was obscured with a dark sack, as per tradition, and his eyes betrayed no emotion he might've had. He was cold as Skyrim's highest mountains or deepest sea. Heartless as stone. Jo'Jarsi found herself absorbed in this figure, this reaper, this personification of death. Every scar on bulging muscle. Every stitch in the sack's cloth. She could not find terror in herself. It was swallowed by shock. The shouts of the Imperial soldiers trailed off into an unintelligible warble in her ears. And so did the ear-piercing dragon's roar.

Just as the executioner had raised his axe, he was forced to the ground, forced down by the mighty shriek of a dragon, a true, honest-to-gods _dragon_. It was gigantic and black, curling its body on the top of the keep and dwarfing it. The stone crumbled and threatened to buckle beneath the creature's weight. Where the soulless eyes of the executioner had been, she now saw the intelligent eyes of the dragon, seeing into her so deeply it was as though she wasn't even there. Jo'Jarsi was frozen. Terror had finally found her. The dragon opened its mouth, revealing long, sharp teeth that were black as night. Flame begun to spark as it choked out an odd roar, almost like words.

A hand grasped at her arm and jerked her up and away, out of the path of a deadly wall of fire. "Hey, come with me if you wish to live! Hurry!" Jo'Jarsi snapped back into reality and dashed along with the hand still gripping her. It was a Nord, a Stormcloak even, one of the prisoners she was brought here with. Once her legs got to moving, he released her and herded her into one of the towers of the keep. He was there with other Stormcloaks, arguing, talking, ordering, panicking. They'd somehow gotten their binds off and already found weapons. What had she missed in her pre-death day dream? She nervously crept up the spiral stone stairs, hoping that maybe she could hide from the beast outside. She reached the floor above and had opened her mouth to speak to the group of escaped rebels that had the same idea.

Her words never came out - interrupted as the dragon busted the wall open and filled the floor with fire. She staggered and watched the flames devour the men, turned them into char and ash. The dragon saw her out of the corner of its eye and jumped off away from the wall to continue wreaking havoc. Jo'Jarsi snuck a look out of the hole in the wall. This keep, this town, it was in ruins. The dragon flew overhead, screaming unknown words of a forgotten language, igniting wooden houses and bodies swaddled in fur coats, destroying all.

The Nord rushed upstairs, looking at her, then to the burnt bodies, then back to her. His mouth was left slightly open. He set a hand on her furred shoulder in attempted comfort. "You should get out of here. I'll meet up with you in the town centre. Okay?"

A small, slow nod.


	2. Chapter I

The escape from Helgen was not entirely free of accident. There was fire and angry Imperials and bears and giant spiders. But she and her Nord companion, Ralof, made it out alive - though scratched up. Jo'Jarsi and Ralof had found a cave system in the basement of the keep that eventually led out to safety. They huddled now before a small, pathetic fire, their breaths curling out of their mouths in thick white tendrils. It was a surprisingly cold night for Last Seed. Even the khajiit in her thick, dark coat shivered beneath a tattered hide. Their night was near wordless, but the Nord had suggested that she join up with the Stormcloaks. Fight the Empire. Fight for freedom. It piqued her curiousity for sure.

In fact, that next afternoon, after she reached Riverwood and got some supplies (from gold gifted from Ralof's family), Jo'Jarsi had no clue what to do with her life. Every day after yesterday was a gift. She survived execution. She survived a dragon. She survived swarms of Imperial guardsmen. Her humble life as a shopkeeper in Bravil had not prepared her for such danger. Even if the Stormcloaks did not fit her philosophy, she still needed somewhere to go. Windhelm was on the other side of Skyrim, practically, and was hopefully as far away from that dragon as possible.

Her knowledge of Skyrim was minimal. She knew that it was cold and that Nords liked mead. And, she supposed, dragons were coming back to life. But hopefully, the pathway to Windhelm was filled with inns and guards and had no dangers beyond the occasional wolf. Ralof had given her an old, outdated map from the 3rd Era but it was enough to plan a route. Here she sat, map sprawled out across the table. Hopes dropped. The only official stop between Riverwood and Windhelm was Whiterun. It would still be broad daylight by the time she reached there. Inconvenient. Perhaps she could make camp.

Jo'Jarsi rolled up the decrepit map, stuffed it in her rucksack, and set out for Windhelm. Or whatever other adventure found her.


End file.
